Transcontinental

by Brad Cook

  “Hm.” She turned toward the TV.

  “I rode on trains, hitchhiked, walked. I left because my mom died.” For a moment as he said it, he felt as if he was missing something, as if one of his fingers had disappeared, and then it faded away.

  “That’s cool,” she muttered, looking around. “Hey.”

  He turned and found her face inches from his, then she moved in and planted a kiss right on his lips. Leroy froze, burning with anxiety and buzzing with excitement. He was glad her eyes were closed; he wouldn’t want anyone to see the face he probably made. He’d never kissed before, so he puckered his lips until she pulled away a moment later.

  “Isn’t that the boy’s job, too?” he asked sheepishly.

  “Yeah, but you would’ve never done it.”

  She nestled back onto his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  “Oh my gosh!” she started as her eyes shot back open.

  * * *

  Leroy opened the door for Jill as they exited SpiritWood’s main building. She hugged his arm as they crossed the yard to the girls’ dorm.

  “Thanks for walking me back. You never know what or who you might come across out here,” she said with a giggle. “I might need protection.”

  “I’d probably wuss out,” Leroy admitted with a weak smile as they stopped at the front door. “Unless you got threatened by a rabbit.”

  “Oh. Huh. Well thanks for hanging out with me.” She embraced him until he had to squeeze back, then she pulled away and kissed him briefly. “Oh, look,” she said, pointing past him with a smirk.

  He spun around, and the feeling drained from his body. Jemisha stared at him, her big eyes full of tears, from the window of a departing SpiritWood van.

  Leroy watched, lost in a stupor, then he dashed after the van.

  “Oh, please,” Jill muttered, rolling her eyes as she opened the dorm door.

  Leroy stomped to a stop at the edge of the forest as the van made a turn and easily pulled away from him. He huddled over, bracing himself on his knees and catching his breath. He needed answers.

  * * *

  Leroy barged into Atasha’s office in the girls’ dorm.

  She glanced up from the papers in her hands and, in an exasperated tone, said “Is there something I can do for you, Marcus?”

  “Where’re they taking Jemisha?”

  “I was not informed. Now unless you have another issue—”

  “What about the Bishop? He’ll know.”

  “Yes, he would know.”

  “Ask him,” Leroy demanded, then added a tender “please.”

  “The Bishop and Pastor Mercer both left with Jemisha, so as much as I hate to turn down such a polite request, I have no choice.”

  Leroy raked his fingertips down his scalp and cheeks in frustration. “What am I supposed to do, then? I messed up.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. What I do know is that Jemisha was no good, and a nice boy like you shouldn’t be wasting time on a girl like her. What about Jill? I saw you two watching television. She seems nice.”

  * * *

  Back at the same table in the library, with Brooks looking on fondly, Leroy stared through his skeletal sketch of the Jacaranda tree. That was exactly how he felt—like a tree with no leaves. Worse, he couldn’t concentrate. Jemisha’s face stained his thoughts, and her hopeless expression crushed him with guilt.

  He felt as if a gong was ringing inside his head and his chest. She would come back at some point, right? He needed to finish the drawing for when she did. After all, she would be upset when she returned. He cursed himself for hanging out with Jill, but as guilty as he felt, he couldn’t bring himself to regret his first kiss. It should’ve been with Jemisha, but in any case, it happened. He just had to work on moving forward.

  Gritting his teeth, Leroy tried to clear his mind, but the fog remained. If he couldn’t concentrate enough to focus on the big picture, maybe he could work on the thoughtless details. He put the pencil to the paper and began to add the tree’s fern-like leaves to the lower branches. With each little triangle his storm of emotions settled, until his mind was clear and he was calm. Some time later, he pulled back to look at the drawing, and found it coming along nicely. The tiny leaves of the tree gave the piece rich detail.

  He lowered his head and sketched the Jacaranda’s flowers—little bells that flared out at the bottom and bunched at the tips of the outer branches—experimenting with layering, shading, and texture. To the best of his memory, he recreated the bouquet Jemisha had presented him that special afternoon.

  The next thing he knew, Brooks was tapping him on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or just zoned out, but he glanced down at the picture and realized he hadn’t been working for some time. Even in its unfinished state, it was impressive, at least to him.

  “Time to close up shop, kid. Out we go.” Brooks noticed the picture. “You got a good eye. Keep that paper. Finish the tree, draw some others. Maybe draw me something nice.” Brooks winked as he led Leroy toward the door.

  The rest of the evening was grueling. He couldn’t stay awake through bible study, which got him an earful, and later, he couldn’t sit still in bed. His thoughts see-sawed endlessly between Jemisha and the unfinished drawing for her, burning a hole through the top bunk. He hoped he could work on it at breakfast. He hoped he could finish it before she got back. It was all he could do.

  * * *

  To his surprise, he woke with that same hope buoying him, ready to spend every free moment he could find finishing the drawing. He laid in the dark a while, then Carl entered and started the morning routine. Leroy stood and stretched until every shred of the urge to go back to bed was eradicated, and most of the boys had left the room. Then, he reached onto the top bunk for his papers and pencil, but felt nothing.

  A cold chill hit him. They couldn’t be gone. Who could’ve, or would’ve, taken them? He stepped onto his mattress and peered over the top bunk, but all he could see was the neutral gray tone of the sheets, as foreign as the surface of the moon in his confusion.

  “Hey Carl.”

  The man approached. “Something wrong?”

  “You know what happened to my drawing? It was on the top bunk.”

  “Check under the bed? The fan might’ve blown it off.”

  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that. His cheeks hot, Leroy silently knelt and looked beneath the bed, but the floor was bare.

  “Not there.” He stood. “Besides,” Leroy realized, “a fan couldn’t blow away a pencil.” He was starting to get upset. “Someone did this.”

  “Look, I’m sorry it’s gone, but to be fair you’re not supposed to have that in the first place. If I had known, I’d have had to take it, anyway.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I can’t have a drawing?”

  “Well, you can have a drawing, but you shouldn’t be drawing. The Bishop believes that creativity doesn’t serve God; it serves only the ego.”

  Leroy was left speechless.

  “Listen, you doing alright? I know you’ve been through a lot recently.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Just know that if you need anything, we’re all here for you.”

  Leroy knew what he had to do. He shut up and followed Carl and the rest of the kids as they marched out of the dorm and across the yard to the main building. As the rest of the kids entered, he ducked off to the side and let the door close. He waited a minute, to let the atrium clear out, then went inside and, hands jammed in his pockets, traversed the room.

  Hallways branched off in every direction as he walked, trying to remember which way led to the Bishop’s office. He had to turn back a few times, but eventually he made it to the carved door with the Bishop’s initials in the middle. Creativity didn’t serve God, unless it looked cool to the Bishop, he supposed.

  He was about to knock on the door when he realized what he was doing; he’d split away from the group and run off to
confront the leader of the organization he’d only recently joined. Leroy thought back to the person he’d been just a few short weeks ago, and was proud of the person he was becoming.

  Instead of knocking, he barged right inside.

  Pastor Mercer sat at the desk, fingers steepled and gaze hardened. Standing beside him, Bishop Wood covered up his surprised expression with a smile, and started toward Leroy. “Thanks for joining us. We were just speaking about you. You’re making great progress, you know.”

  “Somebody stole my drawing.”

  The Bishop furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “I was working on a drawing. I put it on my top bunk before I went to sleep, then it was gone by the time I woke up. I want it back.”

  “Marcus, I’m very sorry to hear that, but to be fair, drawing, and art in general, isn’t an approved activity. Creativity serves only the ego. Not God.”

  “Where’s Jemisha?”

  The Bishop cleared his throat. “She has been transferred to our sister facility. We thought her a better fit under their methods of care.”

  It sent Leroy reeling. “What’s that even mean? She’s not coming back?”

  “She is not… no.”

  “Can I visit her?”

  “No, you may not.”

  It wasn’t fair. All his notions of making things right with her vanished in an instant. He’d never see her again. He clenched his fists.

  “You can’t do this!”

  “WE CAN DO,” boomed Pastor Mercer, his voice ringing off the walls, “anything we like. Those who choose to take refuge in the church of SpiritWood are immutably under our authority. Who are you to deny that authority?”

  The courage zapped right out of him, Leroy stood, speechless.

  “Further, although Jemisha Winters was a problem since day one, you are the reason she was exiled. We could deal with, perhaps even cure her snottiness, insubordination, lack of work ethic, but we cannot permit a romantic relationship between two youths. The Lord forbids it, and thus, so do we.”

  “What about her brother? Clayvon can’t even see her?”

  “No. You should have considered that before your little dalliance.”

  It was his fault Jemisha was gone. How could he tell that to Clayvon? And what about Jill? He couldn’t see her anymore, for her own safety. His relationship with Jemisha had been relatively innocent; who knew what they’d do if they found out he and Jill had kissed.

  “So unless you’d like to be transferred somewhere as well, I suggest you keep your head down and your mouth shut, young man.” He motioned to Bishop Wood. “Give him the bracelet.”

  With a sigh, the Bishop produced from his coat pocket one half of a pair of handcuffs painted red, then latched it tightly onto Leroy’s wrist.

  “What’s this for?”

  “It’s a disciplinary bracelet. For those who step out of line.”

  “Now get to work,” Pastor Mercer sneered.

  The Bishop opened the door and ushered him out.

  The massive wooden door slammed shut behind him.

  * * *

  It took Leroy ten minutes to gather the will to join the congregation in the cafeteria. Fidgeting with the cuff on his wrist as he entered, Leroy shot Clayvon a wayward glance, but he was engaged in conversation and didn’t notice.

  Since he was late, the lunch line was empty when he arrived. As he passed through, sullenly choosing the food he wanted, the lunch ladies looked at him with bemusement. When he got to Mama Sarena, he found out why.

  “Sorry baby, but you know the deal. You get the bracelet, you don’t eat.”

  He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “I can’t eat?”

  “According to the Bishop, no. You must’ve sinned, somehow.”

  “Like, I can’t eat breakfast?”

  “Or lunch, or dinner. That’s just the rules. Seems to work, too.”

  She took his tray.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Since I like ya, take this.” She set a biscuit on the counter, then turned away. “Just keep those lips zipped.”

  Leroy walked toward his table in disbelief, and a knot in his stomach over the prospect of talking to Clayvon. He briefly considered sitting at another table, maybe with Jill, but then his friends would know something was up, and he didn’t want to drag Jill into his mess. He had to just get it over with.

  The seat across from Clayvon was serendipitously vacant, so he sat.

  “Where you been?” Clayvon asked.

  “Look, uh… I’m just gonna say it. Pastor Mercer told me they transferred Jemisha to some other facility or something like that.” Leroy couldn’t look at him. “She— She’s not coming back. I’m sorry.”

  The others went silent. Clayvon just stared.

  “Hell naw,” said Rashaun.

  “Can they do that?” asked Darius.

  “Of course they can,” Whatson said. “They can do whatever they want.” The boys glared at him. “Look, I know it’s hard to take, but it’s the truth.”

  A frown spoiled Sherman’s face. “I’m gonna miss her.”

  Leroy expected Clayvon to blow up, but he was calm. “First Ma, now they got her, too.” He looked at Leroy’s wrist. “Got the cuff, huh.”

  “Snuck into the Bishop’s office to ask about her. Pastor wasn’t happy.”

  “Rough. Take my food. Ain’t hungry.” He slid the tray across the table, then left the room. Leroy moved to follow, but Whatson grabbed his shoulder and said “Let him go. Give him some time.”

  Leroy looked down at the food, trapped in a full body cast of guilt. Despite his turmoil, his stomach growled, and he ate, hiding his marked wrist.

  * * *

  Later that day, Leroy saw two adults escorting Clayvon through the halls of SpiritWood with a bracelet same as his. He never saw it, but Leroy heard from friends and acquaintances that Clayvon had gone back to the dorm and literally torn his sheets and mattress to shreds in a rage.

  Leroy was bored in the field that day without his friend, his guilty conscience the only company. He took his anger out on the dirt, chopping and slicing, rubbing his palms raw and inflaming his shoulders.

  Clayvon wasn’t at dinner that night. Starving after a hard day of physical therapy, Leroy ate his friends’ leftovers, then broke off from the group and headed to the dorm, skipping bible study. God hadn’t done much for him, lately, and Leroy had lost interest.

  He stopped outside the dorm when he heard a soft sobbing. He didn’t want to barge in and embarrass whoever it was, although he had a feeling he knew, but after a minute, he decided it was worse to eavesdrop, and walked inside.

  Clayvon pretended to be asleep as soon as the door opened. Leroy crept past his bed, trying not to look, but he did. He saw Clayvon’s arm hanging over the side of the bed, handcuffed to one of the legs. Leroy stopped in his tracks, and said “Hey, you okay?”

  No response.

  After a minute of silence, Leroy laid in his bed, staring at the bottom of the top bunk, a sight he’d grown very familiar with. The wooden slats that supported the mattress reminded him of railroad tracks, and he got an intense urge to leave SpiritWood that very moment, hop the nearest train and just go anywhere. It was so strong he sat up in bed, breathing heavily. He could almost hear the train’s horn piercing his thoughts, soothing his weary soul.

  * * *

  The rest of the week passed with the speed of a three-legged turtle. Clayvon’s spirit was sapped, just as Jemisha’s had been. It wasn’t until then that Leroy noticed how much they looked alike. He couldn’t even imagine the pain of having a sibling taken away.

  Clayvon’s despondence seemed to drag everybody else down, and the dynamic of the group was skewed without Jemisha. Conversation was rare and sparse, and nobody joked, nobody riffed, ribbed, or poked fun. Leroy couldn’t wait to leave the cafeteria each day, and was sure the others felt the same.

  As the days passed, his discontent grew. He wasn’t hims
elf at SpiritWood; he was putting on a front, one that was fast disintegrating. He felt imprisoned. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the wooden slats under the top bunk, and itched to get away. But how could he escape a prison?

  Sunday came, and Leroy readied himself to be the butt of another humiliating event, but he was pulled from line on his way to church. Carl took him down a hall to a gold door with the phrase ‘Seek, and you will find,’ emblazoned in thick black lettering.

  Carl stuck a key in the hole and twisted, then opened the door and gestured for Leroy to enter. Inside was a tiny room with another door.

  “Go on in,” Carl said. “They’re waiting.”

  Leroy stepped inside, then heard the door shut behind him. The door in front of him opened, and Pastor Mercer appeared in the gap.

  Smiling, he said “Welcome, Marcus. Join us.”

  The room was bare, but for a padded mat covering the floor and walls. He kneeled amongst the dozen or so women and children doing the same, then looked to the Pastor for further instruction.

  “Now we can get started,” he said, clasping his hands. “For those of you who are new to this — not you, Tasha,” he grinned, pointing to a rotund woman, “we call it seeking, or tarrying. See, contrary to popular belief, baptism in the Holy Ghost is not a figurative phenomenon; it is a tangible, physical experience, more powerful, more profound than anything you have ever beheld, I guarantee that. It does not come easy. But it is not optional. We’ll spend as long as it takes today to get you all infilled, but if you need more time — I’m looking at you, Tasha — we will continue next week. That said, the sooner you are saved, the sooner we can all leave and get some grub.”

  Two men at the front of the room, one with a drum and one with a tambourine, began to beat out a tight polyrhythm. Speaking over the noise, Pastor said “Would anybody like to lead the group?”

  Tasha and another woman raised their hands, and the Pastor picked the other woman. “Chantel, come on up here.”

  The old woman struggled to get up, then in a hurried waddle joined the Pastor and the musicians. Despite her age and frailty, the skinny woman began to hop and dance with an energy Leroy couldn’t believe.